In 2014, I interviewed Barbara for AGENDA Special Edition: 1. Her words still echo in my heart:

“Sometimes they just didn’t want you there. You could be the best musician in the room, but if you were a woman—especially a Black woman—you had to fight twice as hard just to stand still.”

Her voice stayed with me. Because I’ve lived it, too.

Even women who’ve reached the pinnacle of commercial and critical success are not spared. Diana Krall, a Grammy-winning jazz pianist and vocalist, is one of the best-selling jazz artists of all time. Yet despite her talent, she has faced persistent scrutiny—not for her playing or her phrasing, but for her appearance, her image, and whether she “fits” the idea of what a jazz woman should be. Male vocalists with far less range are rarely held to the same standard. Krall’s playing is nuanced, her arrangements sophisticated, and her body of work a masterclass in elegance and restraint. Still, she’s been told to smile more, soften her presentation, adjust her aesthetic. She’s worked with giants like Tony Bennett and Elvis Costello, headlined festivals, and topped charts, and yet the spotlight has often come with strings attached. Diana Krall is proof that excellence doesn’t shield women in jazz from gendered expectations—it simply makes the double standard more glaring.

Even outside the American mainstream, women face similar pressures. Hiromi Uehara, the Japanese pianist and composer known simply as Hiromi, is a genre-defying virtuoso whose technical brilliance has dazzled audiences around the world. She blends jazz with classical, fusion, and avant-garde influences—often in performances so physically intense they leave her drenched in sweat and surrounded by standing ovations. And yet, critics frequently describe her with words like “whimsical” or “cute”—adjectives rarely applied to male counterparts with her level of mastery. Hiromi has shattered norms, not only in jazz but in Japanese culture, where women are often discouraged from expressing themselves boldly. She is living proof that no matter how hard we play, or how fiercely we innovate, women—especially women of color—are still too often judged by packaging instead of performance.

And then there’s Bria Skonberg, the Canadian trumpeter and vocalist who’s redefined what it means to lead with brass. In a genre where female trumpeters are still viewed as anomalies, Bria brings virtuosity and vintage swing into the modern age—yet she, too, has faced the industry’s reductive gaze. Critics often focus on her looks or her crossover appeal rather than the depth of her improvisation or the fire in her horn. She has pushed through it all—touring internationally, educating the next generation, and commanding the stage with boldness and grace. Her journey reminds us that even when women dominate the bandstand, they’re still expected to justify their place on it.

I once headlined a major venue. My name was on the marquee. I signaled mid-song to my sound engineer to adjust the effects—standard practice for any bandleader. After the show, a hired keyboardist, prominent in the scene, confronted me. “That was unprofessional,” he said.

I reminded him: “If I want to sit on a stool and crochet during my set, I could. This is my show. You’re here because I hired you.”

He stomped off. I still paid him. He unfriended me the next day.

This is what it looks like to lead while female. We’re expected to be flawless just to be tolerated—and if we are, we’re called intimidating. Difficult. Too much.

And the deeper cruelty? That women in jazz are forced to meet a visual standard men simply aren’t. A male musician can roll in wearing jeans and a t-shirt. A woman must be styled, made-up, and perfectly put together. If not, it’s seen as disrespectful to the audience.